The Nature Of The Game
by rukushaka
Summary: Phil Coulson has nightmares about an island paradise. Concerned about the latent effects of being stabbed by an Asgardian staff and sick of keeping secrets, he gathers his team and places a call to SHIELD's resident expert in Asgardian brainwashing: a certain very skilled archer. Nature Series #1.
1. The Briefing

**I don't own Agents Of SHIELD.**

 **This story was written for TYRider, who snuck into my house and fed the plot bunnies when I wasn't looking. Thanks.**

 **Set between 1.08 _The Well_ and 1.09 _Repairs._ First in the _Nature_ series.**

 **The nature of the game; idiom; the inherent or essential quality or character of something, which cannot be changed.**

* * *

 _1\. The Briefing_

* * *

For the fifth night in a row, Phil Coulson wakes gasping from a nightmare about a sandy beach in Tahiti. The words that spill from his lips are gone before he can parse them, dissipating into the darkness like so many sparks from a dying fire. He gropes after them half-heartedly. Maybe this time…

Nothing.

Blue sky, white sand, overwhelming peace —

— or is it overwhelming horror? —

and a litany of words that he can never remember.

He's tried recording his bad nights. Watching himself toss and turn is an exercise in humility. If it could get him useful intel, it would be worth it. But whatever he says in his sleep is soundless, and his mouth doesn't open wide enough to let the visual speechreading program do its thing.

He's trained himself too well to stand up under prolonged interrogation.

Maybe it's not the memory itself that holds the horror. Maybe it's the lack of memory. The horror will go when the memory comes back, he hopes.

He has to hope.

Because if not… if it's the memory and not the lack of it that's causing the tightness in his gut and the phantom pain in his chest and the sickening twisting in the back of his eyeballs…

He shakes his head sharply, cutting off that thought before it can form, and throws the covers back. Scrubs a shaking hand over his face. Swings his legs over the side of the bed. He's drenched in sweat from his balding head to his calloused toes, and there's really nothing he'd like more than to collapse in a shower for the next thirty minutes while he tries to regain some equilibrium.

But it's not an option.

Not now.

The team has noticed, of course they have. He's letting it get to him, and he doesn't know how to stop. He knows that _they_ know that he's on edge. Off balance. Plagued by nightmares of paradise and gaping holes in his memory and a body that doesn't feel right.

Simmons was almost in tears yesterday, and he didn't need Fitz' barely restrained glare to tell him he was out of line, even as Team Lead. He's quicker to snap at them for the smallest mistake, he's doubled his caffeine consumption, he's been taking needless risks on missions, sleeping less, working more. He lives at his desk, that's nothing new, but it's never like _this_ unless they're running a 24/7 operation.

This isn't a 24/7 op.

But his system seems to think it is. The surging adrenaline, the emotional upheaval, the driving need to do more, more, more, to uncover what happened… it's like he's running an op in the privacy of his own mind with little intel and zero backup.

Phil drops his head into his hands and takes a deliberate breath. Lets it out slowly.

Too many secrets. SHIELD is keeping secrets from him, he's keeping secrets from his team, his team is undoubtedly returning the favour if the looks Ward and May have been sending each other are any indication… When did his life become this carnival of carefully woven half-truth?

Enough.

He stands on legs that feel weaker than they should, weaker than they've been in a long time — maybe since he woke up in Tahiti. _If_ he woke up in Tahiti. The weakness is residual. Psychosomatic. Something. It'll pass.

It's the work of moments to slip through into his office on the top level of the Bus and send a message to the rest of the team.

 _All hands on deck. Briefing in ten minutes. Command Center._

 _Don't gear up, we're not going anywhere._

 _Coulson._

He waits for long enough to see the first acknowledgements come through — May first, unsurprisingly, then Fitz and Simmons so close they overlap — and goes to hit the shower. Eight minutes and counting.

He makes it down to the Command Centre with ten seconds to spare, skin pink and tingling from the heat, hair damp. The rest of his team are already there, dressed in a motley assortment of pyjama pants and t-shirts, SHIELD standard-issue hoodies and jogging pants. Good. He shuts the door and sweeps a long look around the table at them, taking in the general air of exhaustion, the stifled yawns from the youngsters, the weary expectation from May and Ward. They're both veterans at night ops, and that's clearly what they're expecting.

This time they're in for a surprise.

"At ease," Phil says softly, and steps forward to take his place at the head of the data table. Not coincidentally, it's where the light is strongest. The reactions are worth it.

May blinks. If the movement was a split-second faster, he'd almost think it was natural.

Ward _blinks_ , eyes widening.

Fitz and Simmons draw identical sharp breaths, hold their positions for a second, and then turn in unison to look at each other, comparing data sets and matching conclusions in silence.

Skye's mouth drops. "Coulson?"

It's not every day they see him in jeans. Actually, he doesn't think they've _ever_ seen him in jeans. Even rolling up his shirt sleeves is a concession to informality he rarely makes. The suits are his armour. He likes them. But perhaps he's been doing his team a disservice.

They need to trust him, to see that he can be vulnerable.

So he's wearing dark-wash jeans. The black jersey is an old one, v-necked, soft and warm. He had to patch it at the elbows six months ago, but it's got another couple of years left in it. Black socks on his feet. No shoes.

"Thank you for coming," he says, choosing to take Skye's outburst as a greeting rather than sheer shock. "I know it's an inconvenient time."

"Don't worry about us, sir," says Simmons, taking refuge in nervous chatter as per MO. "I like getting up early, it really, er —

"Gets the brain cells working." Fitz grins.

"Yes, that," finishes Simmons.

"Why are we here?" May is straight to the point as always.

Phil braces his elbows on the table. "First off, I'd like to apologise for my behaviour over the last week or so. There are extenuating circumstances, but that's no excuse. I shouldn't have let it affect my leadership, but I did, and for that I'm sorry."

Another silent frisson of shock runs around the table. He looks at them, holding each person's gaze before moving on. May meets his eyes, inscrutable. Skye blows out a breath. Ward ducks his head. Fitz frowns. Simmons, of course, looks ready to forgive him instantly for anything up to and including mass murder.

Not that that's the issue here. He hopes.

"I think I speak for us all," May says after a minute, "when I say that we're aware you've been under some stress."

It is not absolution, but acceptance. Phil takes that with a nod. It's no less than he'd expected; she's his 2IC for a reason.

"And that no apology is necessary," Skye adds.

 _That,_ he will not accept. "No, it _is_ necessary. It is." He drills her with a stare before moving on to Simmons. These two are the ones who need to understand. Ward and May are experienced. Fitz is angry on Simmons' behalf — and rightly so. After all, Phil almost made her cry yesterday.

But Skye and Jemma are both so young, so ready to believe the best in people. To believe the best in _him._

He can't let them down. Not again. But they have to _understand_.

"Coulson?" Skye asks.

"It's necessary," he says again. "I've been under stress, so what? We're all under stress. It's the nature of the game, and it's no excuse for poor behaviour, for bullying — "

Simmons makes a tiny noise of protest, and Fitz puts a hand to her shoulder.

"— for harassment, for _anything_. I can hound you to get a job done because that's _my_ job, but there is a line, and this week I crossed it. Once you start accepting excuses for that sort of behaviour…" He smiles, rueful. "Well. Let's just say it's best not to start. Don't take it lying down, not from a newbie, not from me. Not from _anyone,_ you hear me?"

"Okay," says Skye, taken aback. But he can see the words sinking in.

"Simmons," Phil snaps.

Jemma jumps. "Sir?"

Too much. He wants to apologise for yesterday, but there's a fine line between apologising and begging, especially in front of the rest of the team. He can't break the walls of the hierarchy _that_ much. Still, his next words are gentle. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes. Um." She bites her lip, eyes downcast. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Phil catches May's eye, and she nods minutely. She'll keep an eye on them. Excellent. "Now. Business."

Ward perks up. "A mission, sir?"

"Not exactly." For a moment Phil hesitates. Maybe he shouldn't tell them. There are secrets and then there are _secrets,_ and this one — this one is very private, for all that a few people seem to know a hell of a lot more about it than he does. But that's the problem, isn't it? Secrets. Time to tell them. Trust the system. Trust the team. "It's… personal. In a manner of speaking. What I'm about to tell you does not leave this room without my express permission, understand?"

Five murmurs of _yes, sir._

"I haven't been entirely honest with you. And I apologise for that." He rubs his wrists, wondering where to start. Death would be the best place. "You know I died shortly before the Battle of New York. Stabbed through the heart with a Chitauri sceptre by the Asgardian Loki, brother of Thor. Yes?"

"Yes," says May, eyes narrowed.

They're all alert now, or as alert as can be expected at a 3am briefing.

"But SHIELD brought me back. Somehow. They got to me fast enough, Director Fury had a few tricks up his sleeve, something like that. I got sent to Tahiti to recover. Blue skies, sandy beaches, it's a — " and he tries to bite the words off but they escape seamlessly, "— magical place."

"We know," says Ward. He's frowning. Probably wondering why they're here.

"I've been having nightmares about it," Phil says bluntly.

"Sir?"

"You heard me."

Fitz cocks his head. "Nightmares. About an island paradise."

" _Yes._ Exactly. Doesn't make sense, right? I feel nothing but peaceful when I think about it, it's the most relaxing thing I can remember, but something about it chimes wrong. Sets me off. And I wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air, adrenaline kicking in, and that's it. No more sleep."

"We've got sleeping pills — " Simmons starts.

"No."

"Taking medication is a perfectly — "

"I know, but I react badly to them. So no."

"Nightmares are a normal stress response to trauma," May says. "Maybe it's not so surprising that they waited until Tahiti to kick in. The pressure came off, gave you some space for your subconscious to work things out."

It's a fair point. "Yeah, I'd think so too. Except…"

"Except what?" Fitz asks.

"After twenty years in the field, I know my own stress responses inside out and back to front. This isn't one of them. It's getting worse. Things don't add up. And…" He swallows. "Before New York, Loki used the sceptre to raise an army."

"Golems?" asks Simmons, eyes alight.

"Orcs?" asks Fitz.

"Metal men?"

"Mud men?"

"Brainwashing," Phil says.

"Oh," they say in unison, deflating.

"Loki used the sceptre to do… something, we don't know what… to some of our top people. SHIELD's top people. Turned them to his side. Later he stabbed me with the same sceptre. And now I'm back from the dead, fighting nightmares about something that should be the _opposite_ of a nightmare, and my body feels… different." He lifts a hand, flexes it, watches the movement of tendon and vein and bone under skin. "Not hostile, not alien. Not even _wrong,_ necessarily. Just different. Off balance. I don't know. Not the same."

"Near-death experiences — " Skye starts.

"Post-death, actually." Phil twitches a humourless smile. "You see my concern. If Loki infected me with some sort of latent brainwashing…"

"You said Psych cleared you for active duty," Ward says.

"They did. But circumstances change, I think we all know that." He splays his hands on the table. Looks at his team one by one. "We can fix this. I know we can. In the meantime, you have a blanket apology for any behaviour of mine caused by sleep deprivation and too much caffeine." He cracks a smile and sees them smile back. "And you have my promise that I will not compromise this team. I will not compromise _your safety._ "

"Of course you won't," Simmons says. It's almost a protest.

"We know you won't, sir," Fitz echoes.

Ward and Skye murmur affirmations.

May eyes him for a moment in silence. "You won't," she says decisively, and nods.

Phil knows he's the only one in the room who sees the threat behind the promise. He returns the nod with equanimity. "Thank you."

"Why are we here?" she asks again. "Heartwarming as this is, Coulson, it could have waited for morning."

"It is morning."

" _Proper_ morning."

He grins. "I need your help."

"Anything," says Skye immediately. "Whatever you need."

"I'm going to make a call to an old friend. I'd like for you — all of you — to listen in."

"Why?" Ward asks. "Is your friend dangerous?"

"Yes." It's the truth. "But he's on our side. He's former SHIELD."

"Retired?"

"No, just… former. He's still in the system, but he's off doing some freelance work with our blessing."

"Who would want to leave SHIELD?" Simmons asks.

"He got a better offer."

Fitz snorts. "Better than SHIELD. Yeah, right."

"Nothing's better than SHIELD," says Simmons.

"People leave for all sorts of reasons," Phil says, quiet but firm. "Just like they join for all sorts of reasons. SHIELD is our home, our family, but it is not the be-all and end-all. We do not operate in isolation and we _cannot_ operate in isolation. I won't hear you shaming someone for taking a different path, are we clear?"

Fitz and Simmons meet his eyes with identical guilty looks. "Yes, sir."

"Good."

"So who is he?" Skye asks.

"An expert on Asgardian brainwashing techniques. Loki's brand of brainwashing, specifically."

Simmons beams. "Oxford or Cambridge?"

"Neither," says Phil, and clamps down ruthlessly on a vision of the look on their _expert_ 's face if he heard the question.

"Two doctorates?" asks Fitz. "Three? History, Classics, Norse Linguistics, Norse Mythology…?"

"High school dropout. I'm not sure if he ever actually _started_ high school. He might have slipped through the cracks on that one."

"At least tell us he's written a book on the subject."

"Honestly? I had enough trouble getting him to write his field reports."

Ward wrinkles his nose. "Fantastic. So, what, are we going to have to dumb our vocabulary down to third grade to talk to him?"

"That won't be necessary."

May knows exactly who he's talking about, if the gleam in her eye is any indication. "How do you know him?" she asks. She always does know how to nudge the conversation in the right direction.

It's the perfect opening. "I was his handler for ten years."

Skye's jaw drops for the second time in ten minutes. "Ten years?"

"Yes."

FitzSimmons talk over the top of each other, something about _working relationship_ and _three years maximum_ and _mandatory rotation between supervising officers._

Phil holds up a hand. The noise stops. "There wasn't always a three-year limit. Even these days, it can be waived if the partnership is right. As long as the job gets done…" He shrugs. "And our jobs got done. All of them."

"You must have gone on dozens of missions, sir," Simmons says eagerly.

"Hundreds, probably. I lost count."

"And you worked with this expert the whole time?" There's something very close to worship in Fitz' eyes.

Whether the worship is for Coulson or for the expert, Phil can't tell. "Most of it. We had solo missions, of course, and rest periods. A few collective missions, joined up with other units. Got loaned out more than once. And then the last four years, we expanded the team to three. Helped spread the load."

"If you were his handler," Ward says slowly, "I'm guessing you were on comms taking mission control. He was a specialist?"

"Yeah, sniper."

"And your third?"

"Close quarters."

"Medical?"

"Shared responsibility."

Ward nods. "Makes sense. Explains how you're so good at patching people up, too."

Phil grins. "Experience, Agent Ward." He slips his phone from the pocket of his jeans and unlocks it. "I'll put the call through. I should warn you, there is one small problem with this course."

"What's that?" Skye asks.

"He doesn't know I'm alive."

Fitz whistles. "You're right, that is a problem."

"I'd like you to stay quiet until I can introduce you. You're mostly here to observe and pick up intel, get a wind of how long-term partnerships work. Give him a chance to react first. He won't be happy. Okay?"

Five mutters of agreement.

Phil flicks his phone connection onto the big screen and hops up to sit on the edge of the table, taking up one end, leaving the team to cluster behind him at the far end. He'll start with audio only. They can get a visual later if their expert is amenable.

The number is a string of asterisks on the screen. There's no name. He doesn't need a name; he's had the digits memorised for a long, _long_ time.

He activates the connection.

"Sir?" Simmons asks as the call goes through.

Phil darts a glance over his shoulder at her. Notes the nervous twisting of her hands. "What is it, Simmons?"

"You haven't told us his name."

He turns back to the screen. "No. I haven't."

The call connects with a beep, and an achingly familiar voice comes through the speakers. "Who are you and how the hell did you get this number?"

Phil smiles. "Hello, Hawkeye."


	2. The Expert

**I don't own Agents Of SHIELD.**

 **Set between 1.08 _The Well_ and 1.09 _Repairs._ First in the _Nature_ series.**

* * *

 _2\. The Expert_

* * *

There's a long, stunned moment of silence. Phil can _feel_ the shock run through the team behind him as the realisation sinks in: _Agent Coulson was Hawkeye's handler for ten years?_ The _Hawkeye? Clint Barton,_ Avenger, _one of the best agents in SHIELD history, worked with_ our _Coulson for a whole decade?_

Of course, Clint is doing his own silent reacting; Phil would guess something along the lines of: _expletive expletive expletive Phil's not dead expletive Phil expletive Phil's alive expletive expletive._ But maybe with more expletives.

A shuddering breath comes through the speakers. There's a muffled thump, like a man's back hitting the wall of, say, a barn, and then sliding down to sit on the ground. And Clint says, short and vehement, "F—."

Called it. Phil would mentally high five himself if the situation were less situation-y.

Another shaking breath from Clint, faster now, and then, hoarse, disbelieving, "Overwatch?"

"Yeah, Clint," Phil says. "It's me."

The panting through the phone is coming faster and faster, laboured.

Phil leans forward and _he still has this_ he slips into his Comms voice, calm and level with a core of steel. "Breathe, Hawkeye. Deep breaths, that's it. Drop your head down between your knees. Keep it there — no, I said _keep it there._ Good. Now breathe. In and out, that's it. That's it. And again. You're doing well. In and out, okay. Okay. It's okay. You're okay."

The ragged breathing slows and levels out. Clint swallows. "They said you were dead." His voice is blank. "I saw the body. Your body. You were dead."

"I was," Phil says. "Director Fury had some tricks up his melodramatic leather sleeve. I'm back now."

A second while Clint processes that. " _Director_ Fury?"

"My team's sitting in on this call." Which means he will call Fury _Director,_ because protocol must be observed, and any references to the third member of Delta will be by surname only. Not that they don't know who Natasha is. But there's such a thing as professionalism.

Clint takes a breath through his nose. It's one of his less obvious ways of centring himself. "I need visual," he says, sounding almost normal.

"Repeat that, Hawk." Phil's not stupid enough to think that Clint's fine two seconds after finding out he's alive, but he's also not about to question his asset's decisions. Standard field chatter is an easy compromise.

"Overwatch, I'm requesting visual. Now. Please."

Phil keys in the connection. "Visual coming through."

Clint appears on the screen, face pale, hair sweaty and dishevelled, a trembling hand pressed to his mouth. Stubble lines his jaw. It's a head-and-shoulders shot, clearly from his phone. Plain black t-shirt. Phil catches the glint of a silver chain at the neck — it carries a sterling silver hourglass, he knows, and wonders where in the world Natasha is, how long the mission is this time and if she's injured — and notes the bandage crossing Clint's chest and left shoulder at a diagonal.

An external wall of a barn makes up the background. There's a distinctive scratch down one corner. South side, if he's not mistaken. Beside the archery range. That explains the sweat.

"You're injured?"

"Confirm your identity," Clint says by way of non-reply. He's staring so intently through the screen that Phil wouldn't be surprised if his phone spontaneously combusted.

Phil nods, taking it in stride. "Agent Phillip J. Coulson, Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division. Clearance level 8, designation Sierra Kilo Juliet 08 India Uniform 7342, Strike Team Delta codename _Overwatch_. December 7 2003, 13 Raglan Street, South Bathurst, Australia: _We should be like stars now that it's dark; use ourselves up to the last bright dregs and vanish in the morning_."

Their system of sign and countersign for authenticating identity is simple; breathtaking in its variations, but simple. It's amazing how many people think Phil's too busy to read fiction. Those same people also think that Clint's never picked up a book, when in fact he reads voraciously in any down-time on a mission. Location and start date — of the book, not the mission — and then end date and location. Easy.

" _What, after all, is a halo?_ " Clint replies, relaxing. " _It's only one more thing to keep clean_. December 13 2003, 11 Raglan Street. Agent Clint Barton, freelance SHIELD, clearance level 7, designation Whiskey Juliet Foxtrot 83 India Uniform 7343, Strike Team Delta codename _Hawkeye._ Show me."

"What's the magic word?"

" _Phil."_ Clint's eyes narrow.

"Wrong. But close enough." He's been expecting it, which is why he's sitting on the desk in _front_ of his team, torso unobtrusively angled away from them. It's not that he's particularly body conscious — twenty years of active field work will cure anyone of that — but his team doesn't need to see the bare chest of their Team Lead, not when they're this new to ops.

He lifts his jersey to the requisite height and watches Clint's expression flash from horror to murderous rage, and then to a bland neutrality that would be startling if Phil hadn't trained the man himself. The jersey comes back down.

Clint leans back again the wall, settling in. "Okay," he says, and nods. "Phil. Hi."

"Clint. Hello."

"Good to have you back, man. Did you ever get down to that restaurant in San Carlos de Bariloche? I hear they have the _best_ chocolate brigadeiros."

Phil blinks. "What?"

Clint doesn't break eye contact. "Well? Did you?"

"I'm fine." He doesn't say: I'm haven't been abducted, I'm not under any compulsion, I'm not being blackmailed. He doesn't need to.

"That's not what I asked," Clint says, voice as casual as if they really are discussing South American cuisine. Nobody else knows about the private codewords in case of capture and torture. Nobody but Natasha. That's the whole point.

Phil sighs. "No, I haven't made it down there, but I met a guy at the Richmond the other week who said they don't use genuine local cocoa anyway, so… I'm pretty sure that's a bust."

"Bummer."

"But," Phil says, codes over and done with, "considering the last time I was there I got waterboarded, it's no great loss."

"Hey, we got you out. You didn't even have to spill any fake intel."

"Longest four hours of my life."

Behind Phil, there's a palpable aura of alarm from the juniors — _wait, we signed up for_ what _? —_ and concern from Ward. May takes it in stride. When you've been in the field as long as she and Phil have, four hours of waterboarding is… okay, not exactly a walk in the park. But they've definitely had worse.

Maybe he can find a way to slip some more war stories into the conversation. It won't hurt Clint's reputation — or, Phil has to admit, his own.

Clint rolls his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic. Why aren't you wearing shoes?"

Phil's feet are in shadow. He's wearing black socks. If he was wearing shoes, they'd be black too. And Clint's watching the video feed through a maybe-five-inch cellphone screen.

He's not called Codename: _Hawkeye_ for nothing.

"It's 3am," Phil says. "I was sleeping."

"What if you need to take action?"

"Again, I was sleeping _._ "

"You always wear shoes."

"Not when I'm _sleeping_."

"I remember at least a dozen times when you did."

"I'm not on an op, Hawkeye."

"Aren't you?"

"Not active." He's almost forgotten how persistent Clint can be when he gets an idea stuck in his head.

"Okay." And Clint, as per usual, changes tangent with no warning. "You'll tell Romanov you're alive?"

Phil hesitates for a split-second too long.

Clint's eyes harden. "You'll tell Romanov you're alive." This time it's not a question. "Or I will. And we both know she'll take it better coming from you."

"It's not that easy. The Avengers aren't supposed to —"

"It _is_ that easy. Do you have any idea what it was like for her? On the helicarrier? She knocked me out to stop me _killing her_ , and five minutes later Fury told her you were dead. It took me two hours to wake up." Clint leans forward, shoulders stiff with anger. "She spent those two hours thinking both of us were gone. That she was the only one left."

If his team hadn't put the pieces together, they have now. Coulson, Barton, Romanov: Strike Team Delta. In the face of Clint's mask of rage — and it is a mask, Phil has no illusions about that, but every disguise is a reflection of reality — he can't refuse. "I'll tell her," he says. And he means it.

He doesn't put a timeframe on it.

Clint doesn't ask for one. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry," Phil adds. It's not the superior-to-subordinate apology he offered the team. It's man-to-man, brother-to-brother. "For not —"

"Phil." Clint shakes his head. His mouth presses into a straight line for a moment before relaxing. "Don't. It's the nature of the game, we both know that."

"Still."

"You were dead. That's not something you can just walk away from." His voice softens. "I know you would've had our backs, Overwatch. Would've been in our ears the whole time. You didn't let us down."

Damn Clint and his perceptiveness. Phil's gut twists, an empty hollow aching spreading outward. It's not at all physical. "You're my team and I wasn't there. I did."

"No. You didn't. Romanov told me you stuck as close to her as you could after I was taken. You got the new team together, you played diplomat, you did everything humanly possible and then some. You weren't in New York, so what? That's irrelevant. What part of _you were dead_ do you not understand?" Tears glint in his eyes. "You kept us together, Phil. You gave us something to fight for. And you came back to us. That's as much — that's _more_ than we could ever — " He breaks off, lifting a hand to dash away tears. "And now you've made me cry."

"There's no — " starts Phil.

"Shame in that," Clint finishes in unison with him. He smiles. "I know. Tears for the grief, screaming for the pain, save the anger for taking the bastards down. You taught me well, Overwatch."

His gut twists again. Or maybe it untwists. "I tried," Phil murmurs.

"You succeeded."

"Good. If I can succeed with you and Romanov, I can succeed with anyone."

Clint barks a laugh and jerks his head to indicate the team behind Phil. "I'm guessing that's your next attempt?"

"They are." Phil tilts his head, facilitating introductions without taking his eyes off Clint. "Clint Barton, I'd like you to meet Agents Grant Ward, Leo Fitz, Jemma Simmons, and our newest recruit Skye, who is in training. Agent May, of course, you already know. Team, meet Agent Barton."

From the beat of silence, he can tell May's nodding a silent greeting. She's not only met Clint before, she's worked with him. The others haven't.

"It's an honour, sir." Ward sounds awestruck.

"Pleasure," says Fitz.

"How do you do?" asks Simmons, taking refuge in formality.

"I," says Skye. "Wow. Hi."

"Pleased to meet you," Clint says with an easy smile. He sweeps his gaze along the line. "Six of you, that's the whole team?"

"Pilot, specialist, engineering, biochem, computer whiz," says Phil. "And me. We get the job done."

"Are they as good as we were?"

"No comparison." He refuses to be baited. "Entirely different skill sets."

"Spoilsport."

"That's me."

The view shifts, zooming out to show Clint from the waist up. He's propped the phone on his knees, maybe. Getting more comfortable. Leaving his hands free.

A throwing knife makes an appearance in his left hand. He flips it casually, silver circles spinning up and over and down, up and over-over-over and down. Phil's surprised it took this long; unless he's in active sniper mode, Clint can't sit still for more than two minutes. Keeping his hands busy is a compromise. It's better than dealing with the pacing. Between the three of them, they always tried to have a pen on hand, or a knife, or a Rubik's cube. Even the frame of his glasses would do in a pinch.

Clint's eyes narrow. Flip. Spin. Flash. "Do they know what I'll do to them if they get you killed?"

Behind him, Fitz and Simmons gulp. Phil knows Ward's gone pale without glancing back. He doesn't so much as twitch an eyelash. "They do now."

In truth, Clint would be the first to offer a shoulder to cry into. But the reputation of Strike Team Delta was hard earned. It's no bad thing to reinforce that side of things.

"Good," Clint says, with a borrowed CoulsonTM Bland Smile. "Now." The hilt of the knife smacks into his palm and stays still for a miraculous ten seconds. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"It's not enough that I wanted to tell you I was alive?"

"No."

Phil acknowledges that with mock-annoyed sigh. "Fine. We lost a tennis ball, I need someone to crawl into the vents and —"

"No."

"I need a hot date for an op tomorrow night. Get your tux out and shave that scruff off, we're going to _Swan Lake_ — "

There's a strangled noise behind him.

"Still no." The corner of Clint's mouth twitches. "Romanov would be pissed. And I'm due back at HQ tonight." His right hand goes to the silver chain, tracing it for a second before dropping back to his side.

"Where is she?"

"Classified."

"And for how long?"

"Classified."

"Injured?"

"Not last I heard."

He takes that with a nod. The tension inside him eases at the news. Old habits. And it reminds him of something. "Speaking of which. How often did you have an extraction plan in the last, oh, say three years with SHIELD?"

Behind him, Ward hisses a breath. The South Ossetian op is fresh in all their minds.

Clint frowns. "Solo, unit, or collective op?"

"Any and all."

"Collective, it's a given. Unit…" He shrugs. "When it was needed. Maybe half the time? Delta takes care of our own."

"We do," Phil agrees. "And solo?"

"In the last three years? Not often. But I've had more than ten years field experience, both combat and medical. It's not unexpected. Sometimes they offer, but there's no point wasting personnel when I can get myself out without a hitch."

"And you always knew that going in."

"Well, yeah. What sort of a jerk CO would send in a team with no extraction plan and not tell them that? That's suicide."

Fitz coughs softly.

"Thank you," says Phil. "That was all on that topic."

Clint's not fooled. "And the real topic?"

He folds his arms across his chest. Settles himself more comfortably on the table. Meets Clint's eyes. "What can you tell me about your three days with Loki?"


	3. The Asgardian

**I don't own Agents Of SHIELD.**

 **Set between 1.08 _The Well_ and 1.09 _Repairs._ First in the _Nature_ series.**

 **Trivia:** **My headcanon for the _Nature_ series is that Clint, Natasha, and Phil each specialised in one area of science. Clint (archery) is the physicist, Natasha (poison) is the chemist, and Phil (people) is the biologist. But I didn't spell it out in-text, so you get the trivia here in the author's note, instead. ^_^ **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

 _3\. The Asgardian_

* * *

Clint blinks. "Have to admit, that wasn't the question I was expecting."

"Well, it's the question I'm asking."

HIs eyes slide sideways to the team before returning to Phil. "You trust them?"

"With my life," Phil says.

Clint doesn't move.

"And with yours," he adds, because Clint is Clint and, after ten years in Delta together, undoubtedly knows full well that Phil's assessment of the value of his own life can be… flexible. His assessment of the value of his teammates' lives, on the other hand, is a hard line in the sand.

Clint nods. "Okay. Why?"

"By dint of experience, you're the resident expert on Asgardian brainwashing."

"What about Selvig, can't he — "

"He's indispo — "

"Oh, yeah. I see your problem."

Phil twitches a barely-there grin. "Talking to you is hardly a problem. Unless you keep skirting the question."

"I can tell you everything about it, if you want."

"Good."

"But I'll be more use if I know the situation first."

That's true. Phil fills him in on Tahiti in a very few minutes. The staccato patter of information is familiar. Almost comforting, especially given _who_ he's talking to. He's missed Clint. Missed both his Delta team members.

But he was dead. Some things aren't so easily undone.

When he's finished, Clint tips his head thoughtfully. "Right. And you want to know about Loki… why?"

"Because he impaled me with the same sceptre he used to brainwash you. I'm concerned that there might be some…"

"Residual effects?"

"Yeah."

"Nightmares about paradise," Clint muses. "Interesting. Why Tahiti, I wonder?"

"Search me. It's a magical pla — " Phil catches the sentence at _magical_ and clamps down tight on the final word. Wrong move. Pain lances down the back of his neck. He can _feel_ the word fighting to get out, pressure building like a headache, and after a mere six seconds he has no choice but to open his mouth and let the last syllable out in a grunt, " — ace."

Clint leans forward, face grim. "What was that?"

"Conditioned phrase," Phil says, resigned. "I think. I keep saying it and I don't why. Seems to be an automatic response whenever someone asks me about Tahiti."

"Can you fight it?"

"Trying to. It hurts. I make a little more progress each time, though."

"Hm. Nothing else happening there? It's not triggering anything?"

"Not so far."

"Any other symptoms?"

"Apart from the nightmares? Increased adrenaline levels, night sweats, restlessness, general irritability." He pinches his nose and debates whether or not to spill the rest when his team is _right here._ But he's always been brutally honest with himself. There's no point to this exercise if he's not being honest with them, too. "Alternating hypersomnia and insomnia. Vestigial paranoia. Low-level anxiety. An increase in physical reflexes and a corresponding decrease in mental reflexes, mostly in the first five minutes after waking. And a marked increase in urination, but that's probably the doubled caffeine intake."

"That would do it," Clint says. "Caffeine's a diuretic."

"I know," Phil says drily.

"Paranoia and sleep issues… You've stopped sleeping with Annabelle?"

Phil can just _see_ the confused looks going on behind his back. Clint always has had a way with words. "Loaded gun under my pillow? Not the most responsible thing to have around while I'm dealing with… whatever this is."

Clint hums. "Tell me about Tahiti."

"Not much to tell. Weather was great. Spent most of my time sunbathing. Had a few massages. No expense spared. It's a magical — " He clamps his jaw shut. The pain is just as bad as it was before, but no worse, and he's prepared this time; it's not even close to the worst pain he's ever been in. He curls his fingers around the table edge and grits his teeth against the surge of white-hot agony that rolls down his spine. His mouth itches. His brain feels like it's trying to play pinball.

"Overwatch." Clint's voice drifts through the roaring in his ears. "Don't fight it too hard. Small steps, okay?"

He jerks a nod, breathing deep through his nose. May's hand is on his shoulder. It's shaking. No. _He's_ shaking.

Damn.

He works saliva into his mouth and swallows. Hard. His ears pop. The word fighting to flee his vocal chords pops, too. The pressure dissipates. He lets out his breath in a rush, shoulders slumping, and feels May's hand vanish. "Okay. I'm okay."

"It's gone?" Clint asks, wary.

Phil does a quick mental/physical check, searching for that overwhelming pressure, the compulsion to say _it's a magical place._ Nothing. For now. "I told you I was making more progress every time it happened."

"You did."

"And I've never had much patience for my head being messed with."

Clint grins. "That's true."

"So what do you think?"

"Depends. What did it smell like?"

It's an odd question. But odd questions are Clint's specialty. Phil takes a slow breath through his nose, summoning the memory of warm sun and relaxed-into-oblivion muscles. "Saline," he says, and frowns. That can't be right. Or rather, it _is_ right, it smells right, but the word choice is wrong.

Or is it?

"Salt," he amends. The prickling under his skin settles. Better.

"Salt," Clint repeats. He flips the knife, blade flashing in a lazy single spin. "Saltwater. The ocean. Okay."

"Is it important?"

"I don't think it's Loki, if that's any help."

"Why do you think that?"

"There was no sense of smell with him." Clint's eyes go far away. "Pain, yes; texture, yes; colour — " he shudders — "most definitely. But smell? No."

Phil watches him. Waits for his gaze to return to the here-and-now. "What was it like?" He'd never gotten the chance to debrief the Avengers after New York, much as he would have loved to.

Cons of dying mid-mission.

"Three layers," Clint says, matter of fact. He taps a finger to his temple, and then the knife starts to move from hand to hand. "No, four layers, because you're still there. Right at the bottom. Buried deep, screaming and silent."

Phil opens a new panel on the desk and starts taking notes without looking. Touch-typing is a vastly underrated skill these days. It comes in handy.

"Next layer up is pain. Pain that has been happening for an infinity and will continue to happen for an infinity, and you're all alone, nobody knows where you are, nobody's coming to save you. Not broken bone pain, not even broken heart pain. Just _pain,_ pure and raw and brutal. Remember Matagalpa?"

His back stiffens reflexively, fingers digging into his thighs. "Vividly," Phil says, voice strained. He couldn't forget it if he tried. And he has tried. Hundreds of times. "That bad, huh?"

"Yes."

"Even the — "

"Red-hot needles in the — "

"Foreskin," says Phil, at the same time as Clint finishes,

"Scrotum? Yeah."

There's a long moment of silence. It's broken a second later by twin whimpers from Ward and Fitz, and hisses of sympathy from May, Simmons, and Skye.

"Scrotum?" Phil asks.

"Foreskin?" Clint looks equally surprised. "I assumed they used the same, uh, methods."

"I assumed so, too." He scrubs his palm over his jeans, welcoming the rough drag, the friction. He hasn't had a flashback to the compound in years, but he'd rather not chance it. "In our defence, I guess it's hard to judge the exact placement going solely by the screams from the cell next door."

"Screams are fairly subjective," Clint agrees. "But still. Foreskin, really?"

"Oh, yeah." Phil winces. "It wasn't nice."

"I can imagine."

"I'm sure you can. Scrotum? Ouch."

"Pretty painful." Clint darts a glance to Phil's left. "Your kids look like they're about to faint. Sorry."

"They'll survive. Never hurts to be prepared."

" _It's hurting,_ " Fitz whispers behind him.

Ward makes a noise of pained agreement. " _Hurting so bad._ "

"They should see our anti-interrogation training videos," Clint says with a grin, and then sobers. "That's the second layer, anyway. Pain. And there's no point to it, that was what got me. There's always a point to pain; they want intel or submission or entertainment, whatever it is, there's a point. But with Loki…" He shakes his head. "Nothing. Just pain. Like it's part and parcel of being alive."

Phil jots that down word for word. He knows Clint. The phrasing is far too deliberate to be spur of the moment. He's thought about this, thought it through, probably debriefed himself time and time again. "And the third layer?"

"Compulsion."

When he doesn't say any more, Phil leans forward. "Care to expand on that?"

Clint's gaze falls to his knees, or where Phil guesses his knees are out of the frame. "If I did what he wanted, the pain… didn't stop, exactly, but it sort of… faded. Into the background."

"And if you didn't do what he wanted?"

"I tried resisting." Those stormy blue eyes flicker up to Phil and drop again. "It wasn't pleasant. But I'm used to pain. Kept trying. Kept getting beaten down. By the fifth time, he knew me. My mind. Memories. Instincts. All he had to do was press a little harder on my brain and threaten you and Romanov." His hand clenches, white-knuckled, on the knife hilt. "I stopped trying after that. And he killed you anyway."

Phil takes a deliberate breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Calming. Centring.

"Should've known he would," Clint added, eyes shadowed. "It's my obvious weak point. Logical to remove it."

"Love is not a weakness." The words are automatic, but no less true for that.

"No, I know. But… oh, hell…" The knife flips and flips again while Clint gropes for the right words. "My pressure point, then. Not a weakness; definitely a liability. Me letting Loki _see_ that was — "

"Not something that you could help," Phil interrupts, before Clint can finish that sentence. He's intimately familiar with Clint's habits of self-blame. He spent the early years of their partnership working very, _very_ hard to change those thought patterns.

Clint snorts. "Come on, Overwatch. I'm nearly as good as you are at masking emotion." Between one blink and the next his face closes over. The gleam vanishes from his eyes; the lines around his mouth smooth and settle. Another second and the blank mask morphs into bored professionalism. When he speaks the words are his, but the timbre and cadence are all Phil's. "You're really going to sit there and tell me that I couldn't have held him off? Couldn't have at least stalled him, kept him from digging through highly classified intel?"

"He was _in your brain,_ " Phil says, the words steely. "I don't know how else I can say it. There's no defence against that! It's not something you can just walk away from."

Clint shrugs, and then his eyes flicker to Phil's left and he chuckles. "You haven't given them the talk yet, have you?"

Phil takes a second to shift mental gears. "What talk? _If I find you doing drugs I will forcibly remove them from your bloodstream, shout at you, and then ground you for a week?_ That talk?"

"You never actually gave me that talk," Clint says, grinning. "You just did it."

"Yeah. I did. So which talk did you mean?"

"The one about romantic and platonic love. About love and sex and how they don't necessarily overlap — especially in our line of work."

"Ah." Phil nods. "It's just the love talk."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. The sex talk is entirely separate."

Skye squeaks something unintelligible.

"It has diagrams," Phil adds, and grins at the resulting whimpers and groans.

Clint looks impressed. "Hardcore."

"Thank you." He can afford to push a little. "You meant the talk about how a man can tell another man he loves him and it doesn't imply anything remotely romantic or sexual, right? That talk? And woman-woman, and woman-man, too, obviously."

Clint brings a fist up to his mouth, badly concealing a broad smile. "I think you've made your point. Your junior agents are bright red. That talk, yeah."

"Oh, they'll get the long version later. Thank you for reminding me."

"You're _very_ welcome. Anything to help put the next generation through the same pain I had to go through. Two of your team are having sex with each other, by the way. Not right now, just… in general."

"I know. And now they know that I know, so I'm sure they'll come and talk to me about it in the morning. Or later this morning, I should say." Phil smirks and shunts the conversation back on track. "That's three layers. You, pain, compulsion. What was the fourth?"

"Colour." Once again Clint's gaze goes far away. He shivers. "A blue-wash tint over _everything_. Like he'd stuck a saturation filter over my eyes. Or shoved coloured contacts in. Pantone 306 C, if you want to know the detail. I got a bit obsessive, afterward. Spent hours narrowing it down."

"Bad?" Phil doesn't really need to ask. He can tell enough from the reaction. But verbalising it has always been important for Clint.

And, Phil has to admit, he wants to hears it.

"Yeah. Bad." Clint's mouth tightens. He blinks, coming back to the present, and meets Phil's eyes through the screen. "But I'm okay. I'm not saying the immediate aftermath was much fun, but I'm good now."

Phil makes a note without looking: _discuss reaction blue._ There's more to it than Clint's saying, that's obvious, but whether he genuinely doesn't want to talk about it or whether he just doesn't want to talk about it in front of five relative strangers… yeah, no, it's probably the latter. Phil takes a breath. Knocks a socked heel against the front of the desk. "How was it?"

"I — " Clint folds his arms across his chest and looks away, face haunted. One shoulder lifts in a shrug. "Normal grief reaction. Hyper-vigilance, insomnia. Called Romanov in a few times to keep watch so I could actually hit a REM cycle." His eyes flick up to the screen again, the corner of his mouth curving ruefully. "You know how many people I trust. One of them was dead and the other one's her. So."

There's at least one more person Clint trusts, but the name _Laura Barton_ does not, and never will, feature in any of their conversations. Even coded references are few and far between. All SHIELD agents are good at compartmentalisation. Strike Team Delta are _very_ good.

Clint has better reason than most to keep his work life and home life separate, and Phil would protect that with his life.

And there's not much Phil can say. He'd apologise again for dying, but Clint only ever has enough patience for one sincere apology. Anything more is liable to reap a promise of getting punched. Whether or not Clint makes good on the promise depends entirely on his mood; Phil's known him to barely tap a new recruit who was apologising for bleeding on him, and to lay a veteran agent out cold for the same thing.

Admittedly the veteran agent had just vomited on Clint's new bow. And she was in a serious amount of pain, so the knockout was _probably_ an act of mercy. Probably.

"Hey, remember that time we slept with Romanov in Canada?"

There's a collective indrawn breath from four people behind him.

"Stop trying to traumatise my team," Phil says. But he knows what Clint's doing, so he fights back a grin and adds in a tone of utter disinterest, "Which time?"

Second collective breath.

"British Columbia. '08."

"Oh, upland from Skookumchuck?"

"Yeah."

"It was justified."

"Sleeping with your unit?"

"It's not like we had sex." _Lesson One: exact words._ "Fitting three of us into a one-person snow cave was cosy, I'll give you that." _Lesson Two: hostile conditions._ "You two weren't even fully naked. I was, but I had hypothermia, I was well on the way to some heavy-duty hallucinations, and frankly none of us care about nudity anymore anyway. I don't know if I ever thanked you for that, by the way, so: thank you." _Lesson Three: we look after our own._

Collective exhale.

"You're welcome," Clint says. A barely-there flicker of the eyes lets Phil know the team has understood the point. "Benefits of a three-man team."

"Makes patching us up a hell of a lot easier," Phil agrees. "One injured, the other two swapping out sleep and guard duty. Don't know why we didn't do it years earlier."

"We didn't have Romanov."

"That's true. And anyone else…" He grimaces and doesn't finish the sentence.

"No, you're right. It wouldn't be the same." Clint clears his throat. "But anyway. If you're not getting colour flashbacks and you can remember smells, I'm pretty sure whatever's going on with you is nothing to do with Loki."

"That's a relief." And it is: the tension at the nape of his neck uncoils as the words sink in. "Any idea what _is_ going on _,_ then?"

"Well now," Clint drawls, "that, Overwatch, is a very good question."


	4. The Magical Place

**I don't own Agents Of SHIELD.**

 **Set between 1.08 _The Well_ and 1.09 _Repairs._ First in the _Nature_ series.**

* * *

 _4\. The Magical Place_

* * *

"Tell me about Tahiti," Clint says.

Phil bites back a groan. "Seriously? Haven't we done this already?"

Clint eyeballs him.

"Blue sky, white sand, a lovely masseuse, it's a _dammit_ magical _—_ " He grits his teeth. Grunts protest as fire sears down his spine. His mouth itches, nerves buzzing like a thousand bees, and he knows it was close, he nearly didn't catch it in time. But the compulsion passes faster than before. He doesn't even need to pop his ears. The air leaves his lungs in a rush.

"Overwatch, status report. Now."

"Hawkeye, I'm fine," Phil says. "It was easier that time. Still hurt, but not as much. Makes my mouth itch like crazy, I don't know what that's about."

"And you're sure there's nothing attached to it? No other thoughts, no sudden urge to attack anyone around you or throw yourself off a building, anything like that?"

Jemma and Skye make identical shocked noises.

Phil holds up a hand, forestalling the protests before they can start. "Nothing," he says calmly, watching Clint's keen eyes dart from Phil to the team and back. "I know, I'm aware of the… _possibility,_ shall we say… of something like that. But no, there's nothing. They're just words. Highly addictive words, maybe, but still just words."

"Hmm." Clint's eyes narrow.

"I know that look."

"Do you?"

"Yes. You're about to say something that will piss me off."

"Well, I hate to ruin your glorious nostalgia for paradise. That's got to be your first real holiday in decades."

Phil barks a mirthless laugh. "I wouldn't worry about it. What is it?"

"You said you spent most of your time sunbathing."

"I did."

"And getting massages."

"Yeah. Felt good to work the kinks out after twenty years of field work. They turned my muscles into a puddle of goo, it was awesome."

"Did you go swimming?"

He thinks about that for a second. "I… Yeah. I did. Water was great." He remembers snorkelling, breathing slow and deep through the tube as he watched fish swim through the reef. Floating on his back, arms tight at his sides, caught in the sun-drenched flow of the tide. "Went snorkelling. Those reefs are something else."

"I bet they are," Clint says, and the words hold an edge.

Phil frowns. "You don't believe me?"

"I believe you think that's what happened."

"And you don't. Think that's what happened."

Clint blows out a breath. The knife starts twirling from hand to hand again. "I — oh, damn."

"What?"

"I shouldn't have asked that."

"Asked _what?_ " The question emerges sharper than Phil would have liked, but it's 3am, he's running on not much sleep, and Clint dancing around the issue is not helping.

"If you'd gone swimming," Clint says. "Because now we can't be sure if you actually remembered it yourself, or if those memories are susceptible to outside suggestion and you were just agreeing with me."

It's all Phil can do not to roll his eyes. "Come on, Clint. When have I ever _just agreed_ with you?"

"Never," Clint admits. "But you'd never been dead before, either. I'd never been brainwashed by a mad alien demigod. You'd never had nightmares about one very specific Pacific Island. How was Tahiti, boss?"

"It's." He bites the inside of his cheek, tries to stop it. "A." His pulse thunders in his ears. The pressure builds inside him, headache growing in concert with the itching on the roof of his mouth. It slips out from between clenched teeth, syllables slurring into one. "Magical."

And he clamps down hard. Going any further is going backward, and he _refuses_ to lose what little progress he's made.

"Take it easy, Overwatch."

"No," he mutters, and has approximately half a split-second to revel in the irony of flipped roles — Clint the responsible one urging caution, Phil the rebel determined to do whatever it takes to get the job done — when the air is sucked from his lungs.

It feels like being stabbed through the heart all over again. He slumps, palm pressing instinctively to the hole in his chest, trying to stem the bleeding. But it's not a hole, not anymore. It's a raised mass of scar tissue.

Air. He needs air.

The world lays silent and still at his feet. In the everlasting moment, he finds relief in the fact that there is no tinge of blue, no shadow of a haze. Every detail stands out clear: the tight weave of his jeans, the leather of his belt, the dull gleam of the silver buckle.

And then he sucks air and the world comes rushing back, colour and sound jumbled together, his team steady at his back, Clint on the screen before him. No time at all has passed. He thinks. Maybe a second or two.

What had Clint asked? _How was Tahiti, boss?_

"You tell me," he rasps, and clears his throat. "What are you thinking?"

"What the hell was that?" Clint asks by way of non-answer.

Of course he noticed. "Nothing."

The only reply is a incredulous stare of disbelief, and then a narrowing of the eyes. Worried. Demanding.

"Nothing significant," Phil amends. His hand still clutches his chest. He smooths his palm down his jersey and drops it to his side. "Traumatic memories resurface under stress, you know that. Fighting a conditioned response is stressful. And — surprise — turns out getting impaled through the heart really hurts."

"Ongoing chest pains are _nothing significant_?"

"They're hardly _ongoing_. Traumatic memories, like I said. It's fine."

"Still not healthy, Overwatch."

"Neither is dying," Phil says evenly. "I'm feeling a lot better. Really." He straightens. "Now. You have a theory?"

For a moment he thinks Clint's going to keep arguing. But Clint nods slowly. "Yeah, I have a theory."

"You want to share with the class? Sometime today, perhaps?"

"Depends. How was Tahiti?"

Phil clenches his jaw shut and glares at Clint. He's sick of the endless questions, the lack of answers, the unprecedented amount of _unknowns_ at play here. The sheer frustration of Clint's non-answer is enough to combat the rising pain. He's sweating before too long. Then the shakes start.

But he doesn't say a word.

"Come on, Phil," Clint says. He leans forward, staring down the lens, voice almost taunting. "Tell me about Tahiti."

Fire sears his lungs. He holds the eye contact, fingers digging into the edge of the desk, and breathes deep through his nose. He knows exactly what Clint's trying to do. He can just see the refrain of _come on Phil, you can do it, fight it, come on, come on_ behind his steady gaze.

Whether it will _work_ is another question.

"Tahiti." Clint's eyes gleam. "Tahiti, boss. Talk to me. I want to know all about it. I hear it's a magical place, Tahiti."

The pressure builds and _builds_ until he has to screw his eyes shut against the sensation. Light burns behind his eyelids, a million ants burrow into his skin, dozens of bees buzz over the roof of his mouth. The itching is unbearable. He curls his fingers tighter on the edge of the table.

"It's okay, Overwatch." Clint's voice filters through to him from a distance, calm, steady as a metronome. It's hardly more than a murmur over the blood pounding in his ears. "You can do this. I _know_ you can do this."

Phil, boss, Overwatch… there's one name Clint hasn't called him yet. If Phil's right, if Clint is trying to help him beat this thing from any angle possible, that name will be next. Sweat drips into his eyes. He unclamps his jaw for long enough to let a single hoarse word slip out. "How?"

"Conviction, Coulson."

He was right about the name.

The one-word reply raises more questions than it answers, and the _last_ thing he needs at the moment is more questions. Phil frowns in confusion. The temptation is there to keep pressing, to leverage the topic as a distraction against mindless pain; but no, he's on the edge as it is. He's close, so close. _Too_ close. One slip and he's gone. So he keeps his mouth shut and drags in another lungful of air through dripping nostrils.

Wait. Dripping?

He peels the fingers of one hand from the desk and touches them to the skin under his nose.

Blood.

Isn't that just fantastic.

"Come on, Phil. You can do it. You can beat this thing, I know you can. You've beaten far worse." The words rise and fall like the ocean, ebb and flow, ebb and flow. Phil discards the words and loses himself in their rhythm, lets his mind drift in a haze of red pain. It's probably his imagination, but the agony decreases an infinitesimal fraction.

And then it builds again, rising relentlessly to a fever pitch. _One last fight,_ he thinks dimly, and clings to the rock-solid anchor that is Clint's unwavering gaze. His body shudders under the onslaught. Blood drips onto his jeans. Becomes a trickle. Becomes a stream. His head feels like it's about to burst open. Knowing his luck, it'll splatter his brains all over the command room and his team will have to clean it up.

He breathes through the pain, inhales through more pain, exhales again. It's a never-ending cycle of _pain pain pain pain pain._ He's had worse. Not by much, mind you, and not often, but he's definitely felt worse.

Besides, he's come too far to back down now. He refuses to be ruled by this, this blind urge, this unthinking compulsion. Acting under duress is one thing when it's for the good of a mission. It's another thing entirely when he's home, safe, surrounded by a good team, free to be himself.

Tahiti will not conquer him. Not this time.

He ducks his head, grits his teeth, and holds the eye contact like it's the only thing keeping him upright.

It _is_ the only thing keeping him upright.

 _Come on, come on…_

He can do this. He just has to hold his jaw shut against the overwhelming compulsion to spill four simple words. Hold his head together against the splitting agony. It's the last gasp, he knows that like he knows the look in Clint's eye: it's the same one he gets when he's pressing down on a gushing wound, the one that says _I'm hurting you and I'm sorry, I hate it, but it's for your own good. It's a hard call but it's one I have to make._

And then between one breath and the next the pain is gone. The pressure dissipates, the compulsion drains out of him. The shaking settles.

It's over.

He's free.

He takes a breath. And then another, chest heaving. It feels glorious. He commits the rush of oxygen to memory, the effortless inhale-exhale, revelling in the sudden freedom: freedom from pain, freedom from mental hijacking. A smile stretches his lips. Another breath, air flooding his lungs, and a laugh bursts from him, stunned and relieved.

"Overwatch," Clint raps out. "Status report."

Someone presses a wad of tissues into Phil's hand from behind. _Bless you, Melinda._ The bleeding has stopped, thankfully; only the odd drip falls now. He grimaces at the taste of fresh blood on his lip, all iron and salt, and dabs at his bloody nose. "Ask me," Phil says. The damp trail from nose to stubbled chin itches. He reaches back without looking, meeting May half way, and takes the sealed water bottle from her hand. That'll help.

Clint takes a slow breath. "How was Tahiti?"

Phil mimics the movement, using the time to inspect every cragged crevice of his tired mind. Nothing there that shouldn't be — or nothing that he's aware of, at any rate.

There's certainly no blasted urge to say _it's a magical place._

"It's gone," he says.

Clint doesn't react. "Tahiti."

"Nothing. No urge, no nagging itch…"

"Tahiti, Tahiti, Tahiti, Tahiti…"

"Shut it, Clint."

Clint stops, eyes crinkling. Phil stifles a yawn. And in the soft twilight space where bone-deep weariness and open affection meet, they share a smile.

"That's sorted?" Clint asks, returning to the business at hand.

"It's sorted." Phil nods decisively. "Whatever it was."

"Oh, I have an idea."

"I know you do." Phil finishes wiping the blood off as best he can without a mirror and sets the tissues aside. Brings his notes back to life with the brush of a fingertip. Squares his shoulders. "That's why I brought you in on this. Because I knew you'd have _something_ for me. Now would you mind telling me what, exactly, that idea is?"


	5. The Theory

**I don't own Agents Of SHIELD.**

 **Set between 1.08 _The Well_ and 1.09 _Repairs._ First in the _Nature_ series.**

* * *

 _5\. The Theory_

* * *

Clint stares at him for a long moment, wordless. Sober concentration gives way to dark amusement, which in turn fades into something that, if Phil didn't know Clint better, he'd almost call awe.

"What is it?" Phil asks, when it becomes clear Clint's not about to talk.

"You," Clint says.

"What about me?"

"You're…" His head tilts to the side, brow furrowing. His eyes stare straight through Phil. "You're _burning_ , Overwatch."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You're burning."

Nothing more, nothing less than what he said last time. And just as helpful. Which means not helpful at all. Phil shifts his weight on the tabletop. The stare is a little disconcerting, even — or especially — coming from Clint Barton. Phil doesn't _feel_ like he's burning. It's a bit chilly in here, actually. "Yeah, you're going to have to expand on that, Hawkeye."

"Conviction," Clint murmurs. "You've always had it. Hell, it's what kept us together for all those years. But this…" His eyes travel the length of Phil's body, at once unseeing and all-seeing. Phil shivers. It's hardly the first time he's seen Clint like this; but it's rarely been directed at him, and never with such intensity. "This is a whole 'nother level."

"You said that before. Conviction. What did you mean?"

"How much do you remember about Loki killing you?"

Ice forms in his fingertips. Starts a slow, insidious slide through his veins, down his arms, toward his heart. Phil closes his eyes and forces it back. Rolls his neck one way and then the another, working the tension out of it. When he's sure he's fine — he's _fine —_ he looks up. "Not much. I remember leaving the bridge, and I remember Director Fury finding me after. Everything in-between is pretty scrambled. But I'm told that's normal for major trauma. Why?"

"I watched the video feed. After."

"You watched Loki murder me?" Phil doesn't know why he's surprised. It's what he would have done if Loki had killed Clint or Nat.

Clint winks. "Wanted to know if you'd keep that promise you made in Perth."

"There was no promise. I never made it."

"You say that _now._ "

"Sorry to disappoint, but I don't think I told Director Fury to give my non-existent millions to you and Romanov." Honestly, he didn't have to. He's had a will made out since his seventeenth birthday, he updates it annually, and Clint's name has been on it in one form or another since the day Phil turned thirty.

Admittedly, the first time he'd been in the medical wing when he'd added _And to that pest Barton I leave my left patella. If I thought he'd use them, I'd leave him my brains, too, but that's a lost cause._

These days it isn't much more than _Clint, Natasha, look after each other. You know what to do._

"You're right, you didn't," Clint says with a mournful sigh. After a moment he brightens up. "But you _did_ tell Loki he'd lose."

Phil blinks. "I did?"

"Yeah." His voice changes, and again the timbre and cadence are Phil's, but this time the words are, too. " _You're going to lose. It's in your nature. You lack conviction._ That's what you told him."

"Huh." Phil takes a minute to process that. "I give him some friendly career advice and he goes and stabs me in the back. The ungrateful swine."

"Swine is right." Clint's eyes narrow. "You know, if I didn't know better I'd almost say you were in denial, boss."

Why, because he chooses to focus on the physical side of death, not the mental/emotional/spiritual? A year ago he hadn't even been sure there _was_ a spiritual side.

Because dropping casual references to the fact that he was _impaled with a foot-long spear_ is somehow safe territory, while admitting to the flood of bitter failure and cold terror that he felt isn't? Physical pain has never beaten him, never robbed him of whatever sanity he has left at the time; but terror and failure have. He's talked to the shrinks. He knows which of those scares him more.

So sue him.

"I'm well aware I died," Phil says calmly. "Loki stabbed me through the heart with his sceptre, it hurt like hell, I shot him with a prototype Phase Two, and then Nick found me. And I died. My heart stopped — some say for eight seconds, I maintain it felt like at least forty. For all medical and legal purposes I was dead. Somehow they brought me back. I woke up in a hospital bed, they sent me to Tahiti for recuperation, and here we are."

"Here we are. Having nightmares about said recuperation. And — hang on. Did you say _eight seconds?_ "

"They said eight seconds. I said forty. Why?"

"Y — you — eight se —"

Phil leans forward, intrigued. A speechless Clint Barton is something he's rarely had the privilege of witnessing. "Eight seconds, yeah. That's what they told me."

The knife slaps his palm and stills. Clint makes a strangled noise. Visibly collects himself. "Okay. Um. No."

"No?"

"No. Not eight seconds. Phil…" Clint shakes his head, looking stunned. "I watched the video feed. All of it."

Despite himself, Phil's stomach drops. "And?"

"I mean it didn't run forever, but. It was long enough. To watch you die. And then some."

" _Clint_. Tell me."

"From the — " Clint stops. A shiver passes across his face. He closes his eyes, and Phil knows exactly what he's seeing behind those eyelids. "Fury had forty three seconds with you before you stopped breathing. The medical team took another twelve seconds to get there. From that point to the feed cutting out was — " he takes a breath — "twenty six minutes and sixteen seconds. And five milli-seconds, but who's counting?"

"Apart from you?" Phil asks through numb lips.

"Obviously."

"Twenty six minutes, sixteen seconds." It's a lot to take in. "Oh. Six-one-six. Ha."

Clint's eyes slit open. "What?"

"We're — uh, our base of operations. We're SHIELD 616. Must be one of the Director's jokes."

"Must be," Clint says, deadpan.

"Twenty six minutes, really?"

"Yeah."

"That's a long time."

"I know."

"Are you sure — ?"

"Yes."

"But — "

"Are you questioning my ability to keep an accurate count?"

"No." Even the thought is ludicrous.

"Twenty six minutes, sixteen seconds, five milliseconds. You were dead, Overwatch. _Very_ dead. You can see why it might be a little hard for me to grasp the fact that you're back."

Phil scrubs a hand across his face. It's too late in the day for this. Early. Whatever. "Why do you think I hadn't told you before?"

"Fair point," Clint says.

"I mean, if it's this hard for you — "

"Yeah."

"I don't even want to _imagine_ Stark's reaction — "

"Hell, no."

"Or Cap's."

Clint sighs. "Steve would just give you those disappointed puppy-dog eyes."

" _Just?_ "

"Okay, okay. Steve would give you those disappointed puppy-dog eyes. And then you'd feel bad for the rest of your life, even though it's something you literally had no control over. Happy?"

Phil summons a half-hearted grin. "They do say you should never meet your heroes."

"I'll drink to that," Clint says with a bark of laughter. He reaches off-screen, uncaps a bottle of water, and holds it up in silent toast.

Phil mimics the movement with his own water bottle. They drink in unison.

"Mind you," Phil says, "meeting Captain Rogers wasn't so bad. I hear he's getting on well with Romanov these days."

"Yeah, it's weird, right? An ex-KGB assassin and the poster child for God-fearing American goodness."

"I've seen weirder."

Clint acknowledges that with a quirked lip. "I've been otherwise occupied, but in our absence…"

"Because I'm dead, you mean — "

"You know, if we can't be there, I'm glad he is. There's no-one I'd trust more."

"Pretty hard to beat, really. He is _Captain America._ "

"Mmm. Speaking of heroes. I'm sorry I dislocated your kneecap that time."

Phil blinks. "What?"

If _that time_ is the time he's thinking of, it was almost twenty years ago. Clint, 23, was a sparkling new recruit, and Phil himself was a junior agent. Between missions and with time to kill before meeting with an old friend, he'd ducked down to the firing range to see how Clint was going. As Barton's recruiting officer, it was bad form to spend too much time with him — they called them 'ducklings' for a reason; imprinting on an R.O. or an S.O. wasn't uncommon — but he couldn't resist a quick check-in.

And he'd found a _situation._

"I'm not saying it again," Clint says.

"Worst birthday present ever."

"It was your fault for confiscating my bow."

"You deserved it."

"Did not."

"You had an _assault rifle,_ loaded and chambered with _live ammunition,_ pointed at another recruit from a distance of _five feet_."

Clint shrugs, affecting unconcern. "The safety was still on. And _she_ deserved it."

"Right, well, before we get stuck in a loop of who deserved what for something that happened nearly twenty years ago…" Phil pauses. "You know, you never actually told me what set you off."

"Not important."

"Another time, then." He narrows his eyes, pinning Clint with a look. "You're not usually this nostalgic."

" _You're_ not usually this worried about the accuracy of your memories."

Ah. Phil expels a breath and feels his shoulders relax. "You were testing me."

"Of course I was testing you."

"How'd I do?"

Clint grins, sharp and wide. "Passed with flying colours. As expected. Flawless recollection of every incident ranging over the last twenty years, correction of deliberate errors, and expansion on topics when needed. Your memory's just fine, barring the obvious exception. Nothing to worry about."

"Great," Phil says. He loses no time in drawing them back to the business at hand. "Now about this theory of yours."

"Yeah, boss."

"Well? Hit me."

"That would be insubordination, Overwatch."

"Shut up and start talking."

"You know that's — "

"Hawkeye," Phil snaps. It's his Comms voice, flint and steel backed with the driving willpower that carried them through ten years of missions.

In a move that looks entirely reflexive — and Phil wouldn't be surprised if it was — Clint straightens, shoulders squaring, chin lifting. "Sir."

"What's your theory?"

Because Clint is still Clint, even when he's in full Hawkeye mode, he grimaces. The knife resumes its acrobatics. "You won't like it."

"The only thing I'm _not liking_ is you not giving me answers. Honestly? Any answer would be better than none, and right now I've got nothing. You can't do worse than that."

"You'd be surprised," Clint mutters, but he jerks a nod. "Alright. Swimming. Massages. Sunbathing. What do they have in common?"

"They're normal holiday pursuits when on a tropical island?"

"One — " Clint lifts a finger and pauses. "Well, okay, yes. But they're not exactly normal for _you,_ are they? You would've been bored in two days and started sniffing out a gas station robbery or something."

"That was _one time._ " He's never going to live that down. "And I know, that's why I wanted to get back into the field. I was itching for something productive to do."

"Hmm. Two. They all involve lying down. Horizontal. On your back."

"Went snorkelling on my front," Phil points out. "Bit hard to breathe, otherwise." And it's weird, but maybe Clint has a point. With abrupt vividness he remembers the tang of rubber from the snorkel, teeth clamped around the mouthpiece, lips stretched uncomfortably tight.

"Okay," says Clint. "That's something. Snorkelling on your front. Sunbathing, front or back?"

"Back."

"Massages?"

"Front."

"Swimming?"

"Both." He searches his memory. "Mostly back. Floating."

"Mm-hmm." The knife stills. Clint leans forward, brows contracting. "This might hurt, I'm sorry. How did you get there?"

"I — what? I flew. How else do you get to a tropical island?"

"Phil," Clint says with quiet intensity. "It's important. I need you to _think._ Do you have a memory of arriving on the island? Was the plane crowded, how long were the lines at customs, where did you stay while you were there? Do you have a passport stamp, hotel receipts, photos, text messages to anyone?"

His stomach drops. "You think I wasn't there. That, what, that the holiday never happened? Is that — ?"

"Take a breath," Clint says. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay, it's just a theory. Think about it. Is there anything…?"

Phil shuts his eyes and brings his hands up to brace his temples. "I don't — I don't know." He reaches back, groping in the haze of memory that suddenly seems far more distant than it should. Most people don't even remember what they had for breakfast yesterday —

But SHIELD agents aren't most people, and he's not even most SHIELD agents, he's better than that, he's always had a good memory —

And he doesn't remember.

A headache sparks behind his eyes.

He doesn't remember the flight. Or the traffic. Or the hotel.

Nothing.

Just sea and sand and lying on his front on a table, steady weight on his back pressing him down and down and _down —_

He feels sick.

"I don't remember." The words are muffled, distant. "And I think I'm going to vomit."

"Look at me," Clint snaps.

Turns out Phil has his own reflexive moves. He stares into Clint's eyes, clutching the anchor as the room tilts. "I always remember," he murmurs. "Always. So why can't I remember?"

"You want my prevailing theory?" Clint asks.

"Please."

"It's not as bad as what you're imagining."

He blinks. The room settles. "Okay."

"I think it's an implanted memory. But that doesn't mean it's bad. You _died,_ Phil. We're talking major physical and psychological trauma. Whatever Fury did to bring you back, surgery, whatever, was probably equally traumatic. Maybe he just wanted to, I don't know, give you something happier to remember from that time?"

Phil takes a deep breath. And then another one. When he can talk without shouting, he says, "By giving me fake memories."

"Like I said, it's only a theory."

"False intel," Phil says, and he'd be lying if he said there wasn't an edge to the words. They're spies. Intel — trustworthy intel, accurate intel, which information from Nick Fury certainly should be — is _everything_.

Clint grimaces. "Not a pleasant thought, I know. Think about it, anyway. Maybe you should ask him next time you talk to him."

At that, Phil can't help himself. He barks a dry laugh.

"Fury said he lost his one good eye when he lost you. You two have always been tight." Clint pauses. "You are talking to him, aren't you?"

Now _this_ conversation, his team doesn't need to hear. "Dismissed," Phil orders. "Go back to bed. Sleep in tomorrow, we've got nothing urgent on. I want a report from each of you on my desk by eighteen hundred hours, two pages minimum, standard formatting, detailing what you've learned tonight — or this morning, rather — and how you can apply it going forward. May, you're exempt. Go."


	6. The Family

**I don't own Agents Of SHIELD.**

 **Set between 1.08 _The Well_ and 1.09 _Repairs._ First in the _Nature_ series.**

 **Thanks for reading! Next up in the Nature series: _Freak of Nature,_ wherein Coulson and May battle Phil's hypergraphia and receive a surprise visit from a certain redhead.**

* * *

 _6\. The Family_

* * *

"So you _haven't_ been talking to Fury?" Clint asks once his team is gone and the door is firmly closed behind them.

"I've been trying to call Nick for weeks," Phil admits, and — because it's just him and Clint now, and Clint won't care — lets himself pick at the crusted blood on his jeans. He hates cleaning blood out of clothes. He's good at it, because they're all good at it, but he still hates it. And these are his favourite jeans. "He hasn't picked up once, he hasn't called back, hasn't sent me an email or even a damn text message."

"Huh."

"Why, have you heard from him?"

"Yeah. Not much, it's all business, but it sounds like more than you're getting from him, which is not a sentence I ever thought I'd say."

"Me either." The corner of Phil's mouth twists, half in frustration and half in bafflement. "I can't figure it out. Why now? He's never been this reclusive, not with us. And why did he have to wait until I'm actually having… whatever this is…"

"Cognitive difficulties?" Clint suggests.

"That will do, thank you… Why the hell did he have to wait until now to go silent on me?"

"You know Fury. He goes silent on people all the time. Director's prerogative."

"Yeah. But."

"I know. He doesn't usually do it to _you._ Like he said last year, you're his good eye."

"Exactly."

"You want me to ask him?"

"I don't know. No, leave it. He'll get in touch when he's ready. I hope."

"Or Steve? If anyone can get Fury to call them back, it's him. The Director trusts him almost as much as he trusts you and Hill, I'd say."

Phil raises an eyebrow. "That much?"

"Reckon so."

"I'm not saying I wouldn't, if I were in his position. I just… it hasn't been that long, he's only been out of the ice, what, a year and a half?"

"About that, yeah. You haven't seen him since New York? He's adapted to our century. Taken to it like a duck to water. Uses a Starkphone and everything."

"Huh." Phil would be lying if he said there wasn't the faintest stab of hurt there. It should be _him_ at Nick's side. But of course he's dead. He can't act publicly. Rogers, on the other hand, is nothing _but_ public, for which Phil pities the man.

And Captain America… well. There are worse people to be replaced by.

He glances at his notes. "I wanted to ask you one more thing about Loki."

"Shoot."

"The blue layer. Pantone 306 C."

A muscle twitches in Clint's jaw. "What about it?"

"You didn't tell me everything."

"Because — "

"The team was here?"

"Yeah."

Phil spreads his hands. "I'm listening. If you want to spill."

"I, uh." Clint looks away for a second. Twitches a barely-there nod. "Okay."

Four seconds of silence while Clint marshals his thoughts.

"Worst part of it was, I couldn't trust my eyes. I can always trust my eyes, you know that. _Always_. But this time — " he breaks off and huffs an explosive breath. "Couldn't trust 'em."

"And now?"

Clint waves the hand holding the knife. "I'm fine. Been normal for months. I mean, apart from… You know those sunglasses you bought me in the Falklands? With the purple lenses?"

"At the street market? You'd left yours in the jet, you needed some new ones for the mission."

"So you said."

Phil shrugs. "It's the truth. The last thing you want is eye damage, and the sun was blinding."

"I haven't worn them since Loki," Clint says, the words tumbling from his mouth. "The purple… it's too much like what he did. With the blue. I've — I've _tried,_ a couple of times, but even when Nat's with me I can't — it doesn't — " He cuts a hand through the air, frustrated. "It's a shortcut to a panic attack."

"I see."

"And it — it _hurt_ , because you were dead and you gave them to me, they were the best thing I had to remember you by, and I couldn't even — I _tried,_ I just _couldn't_ — "

"Hey," Phil murmurs. "It's fine, Clint. I'm here, okay? I'm here. I don't care about the sunglasses. They're just glasses. I care about _you._ "

"And Nat."

"Obviously."

"Team is family."

"Yeah." Some more than others. Strike Team Delta… they're more. Oh, they have other friends, both inside and outside SHIELD. Close friends, even, like Nick Fury and Maria Hill. People they can _trust,_ at least as much as any spy ever trusts anyone _._

But as far as _family_ goes, it's restricted to the three of them, Laura Barton, and the kids.

And now, perhaps, his new team. Maybe. He's had new teams before. Sometimes they mesh, sometimes they don't. Before Delta he'd never had one that _clicked_ effortlessly. He's prepared to find that after Delta he won't have one like that, either.

He'll wait and see how it goes before introducing them to Uncle Clint and Auntie Nat in person.

 _Team is family._ It's a common sentiment in some parts of SHIELD, where they sacrifice so much for the job; less common in Ops, because the only spies who trust anyone completely are either very young or very dead. They believe in what they're doing, but they all admit it comes with a heavy price. Clint's one of the rare few who have managed to juggle the job and something resembling a normal life. Most agents… either they don't try at all, or they _do_ try and it ends badly.

A civilian family is a pressure point. SHIELD is a career where pressure points are afforded no mercy.

They owe Nick Fury a lot. And Laura Barton is a highly capable woman.

"You are, you know," Phil blurts, before his brain can catch up and shut him up. Dying made him realise there were things he should have said. Things he _will_ say, this time. Before it's too late. Again.

Clint lowers his water bottle, swallows, and says, "What?"

"Family. I always wanted a younger brother. Or any sibling, really."

"I — thanks." Clint blinks, eyes darkening a little as he absorbs that.

"I never actually told you. Either of you. And I should have."

"You didn't have to. I knew. Trust me, you _didn't_ have to say it, Phil, not when you've shown it over and over again. You're the father I never knew, the brother — " he stops. Bites his lip.

"That's not exactly difficult." Phil keeps his voice level with an effort. "Better than him? A trained monkey would be better than _him_."

"Sorry." Clint shrugs, looking unhappy. "I didn't mean — "

"I know. And I appreciate the sentiment. Thank you. Natasha…?"

"She knew. I promise. You might not have told us, but we knew. Both of us. Beyond doubt."

That's a weight off his mind. It's been lurking in the background for months, ever since he woke up with Loki's words still ringing in his ears. Watching Natasha interrogate the Asgardian on the helicarrier had been hard enough. She'd faked the tears, he knew that, but even so…

 _I won't touch Barton. Not until I make him kill you, slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear. And he'll wake just long enough to see his good work, and when he screams…_

Phil can guess what would have happened. Sex has always been Natasha's weapon, but any weapon can be turned against its user. At Clint's hands it would have been violence not only physical but emotional: the fracturing of trust, the shattering of faith, the perversion of an utterly platonic love. The breaking of a family. Phil knows she feared it not only for her own sake but for Clint's; feared that he would have to watch through his own eyes, helpless to stop his body from _taking_. It wouldn't just be the violation of an old and very close friendship. Clint is a family man, a _married_ man. He doesn't take those vows lightly.

But she'd gotten their answer.

And Phil had gone next, the last member of Delta to meet the monster: suit immaculate, Phase Two in hand, a carefully banked fire of white-hot rage simmering beneath the bland smile.

He could have murdered Loki for what he'd done to Clint. To Nat. To their team.

But that wasn't his job.

"Phil," Clint says.

"Yeah?"

"Do you want me to fly in? If you need me — "

"No, it's — "

"I can have a plane in the air in ten minutes."

"It's fine, Clint. I'm fine." He offers a smile, a genuine one, small and tired and grateful. "Thank you, but no. You're needed where you are. And you're due at HQ."

"They can wait."

He'd been wondering where Clint The Rebel had vanished to. Nowhere, it turns out. "That won't be necessary."

"Overwatch — "

"I said no." He softens his tone. "Honestly. I'm okay. I have a team here. They look after me, I promise. And your team needs you."

Clint pouts, just a little. "You're my team."

"Always," Phil says. "And also, well, not anymore."

"Make up your mind."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah." A gusting sigh. "I know what you mean."

Phil gives vent to a yawn. "I need to sleep."

"Old age catching up to you?"

"You can talk."

"Yes I can."

"Give it six years and _you'll_ be fifty."

Clint shudders. "Don't remind me. You're sure you'll be okay?"

"I'm sure, Hawkeye. Stop fussing."

"You'll call me if you need me?"

"Absolutely."

"Or if you just want to talk?"

"I'll keep in touch," Phil promises. "Now that I can. Since you know I'm alive."

"And you'll tell Natasha?"

"Yes. No-one else, though. The fewer people who know, the better."

He reads the silent question in Clint's eyes and nods minutely, giving permission there. It's one more person who knows — much more of this and the secret of his resurrection is going to be spread dangerously thin — but Phil can't order Clint to keep this secret from Laura, he _can't._

Mr. and Mrs. Barton aren't the only ones who guard their marriage with all due vehemence.

"Now I really do have to sleep," Phil says. "Sorry. It's four in the morning. Much as I love talking to you…"

"Yeah. Nature of the game, I know. Grab your sleep wherever you can." Clint grins. It might be Phil's imagination, but he thinks there's a tinge of sadness to it. "I missed you, boss."

"Missed you too. I'm technically not your boss now, you know."

Clint ignores that with the ease of long practice. "Talk to you next time?"

"Yeah." Phil has an absurd urge to reach through the screen and drag Clint into a hug. It's been too long. "Next time. Coulson out."

"Barton out," Clint echoes.

The screen goes black.

And Phil is once more alone.


End file.
